Disegnare
by Kesshou Uryou
Summary: Disegnare: verb. TRANSLATION: to draw. [Naminé]


_and it's a fading, fleeting dream…_

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own._

**-Disegnare-  
**-Kesshou Uryou-

--

She wonders. Who is she really? A name to the face… that would be Naminé, but honestly, truthfully, there's no additional insight gained by the knowledge of one's name. If she could have anyone to speak it to, it wouldn't matter. She knows this and waits.

Waits for something, not knowing what it is.

There are some truths to be noted, she does understand this. The one that cannot be questioned is always the undeniable and irreversible fact that she shouldn't even be here. To not even be able to defend her existence, to speak in protection of it, to be allowed to hold it dear, that is what she has been bound to without free choice and what she is destined to be punished by. There are some things she secretly envies and one is that subconscious and natured right to be someone. Someone that has meaning. Only she does not get it. Everything keeps her oppressed. She feels like she's suffocating and she can't lift a finger. There's nothing to be done.

And there's nothing here for her and yet she can't move on. She waits.

Whispers of thought that are not really there become her daily ghosts, playing across her mind and she wants to know why she can be tortured when she doesn't even earn the rank of one being with an identity. Why is this such an unbalanced equation? Why is there no hope for it ever being fair? How much blood that isn't really there must be shed? Why can she cry when there should be no reflection in the mirror?

If she doesn't exist, then why does she feel like she does?

And maybe that's what she waits for: the answer. Patiently sitting still with her constantly observing, lidded eyes, trying to shift aside the uselessness to find that one simple truth that corrects all her misguided thoughts.

Somehow she knows that that too does not exist. She smiles, a little pain thrown in, because that means they are one in the same then. So why can't it come to her and keep her company? She wants some badly.

The only thing that is ever there for her, always made to be sure to be there for her, is just the one simple sketchbook. It's her only possession, her source of sanity. From those pages, she rips one out and it adorns her room, her prison, her coffin.

It becomes another one of her dear, dear friends. She knows they're not, but she still likes to pretend.

All smiles, all laughter. Pure white marked by dots and blurs of rare color that's slowly untruthfully consuming the white expanse. A collection of happiness a part of a sanctuary she creates and relishes in where almost feels perfectly content. It's second nature to tear out a leaf, pin it up and stare at her creation for the longest time and want to cry and smile at the same instant.

Her hands, these will be the only things of her own that she'll ever be capable of using to create. A gift some would say, to be able to draw, but she feels like it's a curse. She doesn't know anymore.

But the hours are long, and the waiting tires her. So she draws. She's good at that, pretending too. She's doing that now. She's dreaming with her eyes open, letting her hand fly, watching something she's not sure she recognizes forming. Just like all the others.

This feels like a dream to her.

And it's a fading, fleeting dream. And she knows she shouldn't dream, is not supposed to dream because she probably deserve the privilege and she's only falling further into delusion. But she dreams and those small inklings take form, her pencil brushing, caressing paper that will almost make it very, very clear.

Her desires, her efforts, her newly-born dream, lie captured then in a two dimensional world. And in reality there are three, three dimensions and she knows, knows like she has always known that she will never be complete.

She was never somebody to be begin with. It just only _feels _so real. She wishes it were. She wishes.

And she finds herself drawing again because it's the closest thing to stopping time. To capture this one moment where she is creating, she wants that. Those drawings are stagnant, unchanging and beautiful. But she knows too.

They are just beautiful lies.

She waits, looking at an illusion knowing that's what it is and doesn't want to turn away. She fingers her pencil harder, ravaging the white, far too white, paper in a desire for another dream, another life she can make, another piece of herself to display on these four confining walls.

She waits and she draws. She draws and wonders what the point of it all is. The name Naminé doesn't prove she's really here. No matter how much she draws, she can't prove her existence in this form either. It's impossible no matter what. She knows.

But she continues as long as she is able.

Drawing, drawing, loosing herself and feeling like she's dying. Faster and faster, more complex and elaborate. Never stopping, always drawing. On and on until her fingers blister, her hand stiff from holding the position. Finally the pencil stabs the paper and rips it through, and she breaks down and cries.


End file.
